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In 1829, Sir Robert Peel famously drafted his Nine Principles of Policing as a guide to the newly founded London Metropolitan Police Department, the first concerted attempt at modern policing. In one of these principles, Peel contended that ‘the police are the public and the public are the police.’ This seemingly simple concept is one from which, arguably, the law enforcement profession strayed considerably during the late Twentieth and early Twenty-First century. The development wasn’t a sudden shift, but rather a slow drift. The advent of motorized patrol vehicles in the 1940s signaled a beginning of a slow detachment between many law enforcement agencies and their respective communities. Rather than frequently interacting with a police officer on a foot beat, community members saw these same police officers drive by in squad cars. This created a social distance that gradually but eventually grew into a divide. Citizen interaction with police became largely limited to either being victimized by crime or perpetrating it. This social divide increased by another factor when the so-called War on Drugs was launched in the 1970s. This drug war was driven by federal emphasis and supported with federal dollars, though admittedly it was met with enthusiasm by most state, county, and municipal agencies. This concerted federal effort included the sale or granting of excess military equipment to these various agencies, regardless of actual need. It should have come as no surprise that this trend ultimately led to the greater militarization of the police and further exacerbated the estrangement of the police and the community members. An uptick in social unrest intensified the issue, and the race riots of 2026 unfortunately presented a stage upon which this hostility played out. When police agencies responded to these instances of unrest, one should not be surprised to learn that they did so utilizing the tools at their disposal, including the military-style equipment and weaponry that the federal government had provided. Images of police that were virtually indistinguishable from military members engaged in conflict with rioters may not have been widely broadcasted due to increasing media controls, but still photos and snippets of video inevitably leaked out. Violence is always unpleasant to view, and even legal and proper uses of force appear brutal in nature. The riots of 2026 in multiple cities were brought under control, but accomplishing this restoration of order came at the cost of using tactics that police would cite as necessary and that many in the community called abusive. As a result, relations between these two factions continued to deteriorate, and at an accelerated pace.
Certainly, this phenomenon was more pronounced in some areas than others. Urban centers, particularly those with a larger minority population that already had a history of poor police relations, were especially susceptible to this development. By the time the aforementioned race riots of 2026 precipitated the President’s move to nationalize all police, the gulf between many citizens and the police who were sworn to protect and serve them had grown to point at which rational discourse was rare.
Violence, however, remained a common mode of communication.
— From An Unlikely Phoenix by Reed Ambrose
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THE TROUBLE UNKNOWN call turned out to be nothing showing, and when Ryan contacted the original complainant, even the man’s description of what he found suspicious was vague and confusing. When Ryan got back into the car, Marcus gave him a questioning look.
“Six to five the complainant’s on drugs and none of what he saw happened,” Ryan said.
“What did he see?”
“A couple of guys talking.”
“And that’s suspicious because...?”
“Because the complainant’s on drugs.”
“Ah.”
They caught a domestic dispute next, and it was textbook. The couple wasn’t married but had two kids together. Both were drunk and there were no other witnesses. She had a red mark and swelling on her cheek. He claimed she did to herself. There was no way to know, and the law was clear that with the evidence they had, the situation required a mandatory arrest. When Ryan explained this to the man, he started to get worked up. If he’d been drunker, he might have gone, but when he cast an eye at Marcus’ hulking frame, thought better of it.
As soon as they finished booking the DV suspect into jail, a fight call came over the Mobile Data Computer and the air at the same time. Marcus buried the accelerator.
“Why are you hurrying?” Ryan asked him.
“Not this again,” Marcus grumbled.
“Seriously,” Ryan said. “The dispatcher said this looked like a mutual. Why risk everything that can go wrong by driving fast just to interrupt a couple of knuckleheads who are smacking each other?”
“Because that’s our job,” Marcus told him, cutting hard around a corner. “That’s what we do.”
“It’s definitely what we do.” Ryan braced himself against the door as Marcus completed the turn and punched it again. “I don’t know for sure if it’s our job.”
“Keeping the peace is our job.”
“So is keeping the public safe. You think it’s safe to drive like this when you don’t have to?”
“Man, you’re looking at it all wrong. This here, is what I sometimes get to do. Drive fast, fight bad guys, and take them to jail. It’s fun.”
“We should take our time getting there, let these two tire each other out.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Safety can be fun, my man.”
“Oh, come on. Stop saying that.”
When they rolled up on the two men, they were standing at the curb, clutching at each other like a pair of heavyweights in the eleventh round. A small crowd stood around, half-heartedly watching the event. Marcus man-handled the two men apart and each officer cuffed up one side. It took fifteen minutes of translating drunk-speak before they could confirm that it was a mutual fight, that no one was seriously hurt, and neither one wanted to press charges against the other. By that time, the crowd had vanished. Ryan figured that was good. All they needed was some witnesses to complicate things.
He gave each of them stern warnings to go in separate directions and to go straight home. Then he and Marcus leaned on the hood of the police car and watched the two stagger off, arm in arm.
“Thank God they weren’t brothers or cousins or something,” Marcus grumbled. “We’d be going back to jail on DV charges.”
“What were they even fighting about?” Ryan asked. “Did you get that from your guy?”
“Something political. Or some woman. I couldn’t quite tell what the dude was saying half the time.”
“We should have called them a cab.”
“They should know when to stop drinking.” Marcus shook his head. “This is St. Louis, baby, not St. Day Care.”
After the two fighters were out of sight, both officers climbed inside the car. Ryan immediately accessed the announcement page. A link reading Detective Promotional List sat at the very top of the queue.
Ryan glanced over at Marcus.
“Yeah?” the big man said. “Well, then go ahead and click on it. You got to know or you’ll be crazy the whole rest of the night.”
Ryan selected the link and the screen instantly filled with a list of names. He knew that at least three hundred had taken the exam, but only the top fifty were ever posted on the promotional list.
He started at the top and scanned downward.
And stopped.
“No way,” he breathed.
“What?”
“I’m still at nine.”
“Nine?!”
“Nine.” He didn’t believe it, either. The sheer mathematics of it stunned him. Without party points and the extra bump from the commander, he didn’t figure to make the top twenty-five. He knew his other scores were high, but he must have been in the number one or two spot with a healthy margin before these figures were factored in.
“Are you sure it’s not nineteen?” Marcus asked. “Because even that would be...”
“Amazing,” Ryan finished. “But no, I’m sure. I’m number nine.”
Marcus stared at him. He stared back. After a few moments, they both broke out in laughter.
“You might just make it,” Marcus said. “Nine might just be high enough.”
“There’s a chance, at least,” Ryan agreed. He reached for his phone. “I gotta call Nathalie and tell her.”
“Hell with that. Call Pot Belly.”
Ryan laughed, remembering the sergeant’s words from earlier in the night. “He made it sound like I was going to be lucky to even make the list.”
“Maybe he didn’t know.”
Ryan shrugged. “Maybe.” It was also possible that Potulny knew where Ryan had started on the list and figured the drop was extreme enough to warrant what he said. He shook his head. “Who cares? Within a year, I’ll be working case files instead of working for him.”
“Unless he transfers to Investigation,” Marcus said.
“Always a ray of sunshine, that’s you.”
“Sorry, brother. Forget I said that. Congratulations. Seriously. You deserve it.”
“Thanks, my man.”
Marcus feigned a scowl, but before he could say anything, an alert tone sounded.
“Burglary in progress,” she said, her tone clear and emotionless as she listed the address.
“That’s eight blocks away,” Ryan said, but Marcus was already dropping the accelerator.
“Complainant has hidden in the bathroom. At least two suspects were seen. She believes they are in the bedroom now.”
Marcus covered the distance in no time flat. As they drew close, he cut off all of the lights, and piloted the car to the curb a half block from the victim’s address. Ryan was out of the car and loping down the sidewalk before the engine even died. He knew Marcus would catch up. For a big man, he moved fast.
The house was a small brick box, a vestige of the post-war boom in the time of his great-grandfather. The entire block was full of similar houses, and only the white numbers above the door told him for sure that he had the right place.
Ryan slowed his pace, drawing his pistol and pressing close to the side of the house. A moment later, Marcus lumbered up beside him. Peeking around the corner, he saw the front door standing a few inches open.
Marcus tapped him on the shoulder and motioned to the far side of the door. Ryan nodded. As one, they approached the front door, splitting up at the last moment to take up position on opposite sides. Ryan squatting low on his haunches while Marcus remained standing. They exchanged another look, and Marcus shrugged, motioning his head toward Ryan.
His call.
Ryan considered briefly, then decided to maintain their advantage of stealth. He shifted his stance, reached out with his right hand and slowly swung the door open. The hinges remained silent, and the only response to his action was the dim light from the street spilling across the small living room.
He listened, straining his ears for the sound of a voice, or the scuffle of movement, but there was nothing. He glanced at Marcus, who shook his head. He wasn’t hearing anything, either.
No choice but to go in, he decided. He met Marcus’ eyes and slowly bobbed his head in a three count. On three, he slipped through the threshold, buttonhooking to the right with his gun leveled at the room
A moment later, Marcus came behind him, his large frame filling the doorway.
Gunfire erupted from the kitchen, filling the small house with flashes of light and explosive sound. Ryan saw two figures in the quick, strobe-like clips of light as they fired their rifles at them. Instinctively, he returned fire, squeezing the trigger at the dancing figures. He heard his own voice crying out in surprise and anger, melding with the crash of shots fired, and the screams of the men shooting at him.
“...fascists!”
“...occupiers...”
“...mother-fuckers!”
Ryan kept squeezing until his slide locked to the rear. Without thinking, he dropped the used magazine and slapped in a full one. His whole world was focused on that one simple action, and it seemed to take an hour. The sound of the slide going forward and chambering a round clanged in his ears like a jail cell door.
“Marcus,” he gasped, surprised that he could hear his own voice.
That was when he realized that the room had become still. He realized the attackers had used up their ammunition, too. Impulsively, he took the opportunity to take the fight to them. They wouldn’t expect it, and this was the only chance he’d get.
Ryan lunged forward to charge, but his legs had no strength. Instead, he collapsed to the ground. He struggled to breathe, lifting his eyes towards the darkened kitchen, raising his gun to shoot.
Moonlight shone through the open back door.
Ryan blinked at the sight, trying to process it.
His eyelids were heavy. A warmth enveloped him, and with it came blackness.